


and I will know you by the shape of your absence

by softlyforgotten



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco, The Young Veins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-23
Updated: 2009-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-22 23:52:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softlyforgotten/pseuds/softlyforgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life has a habit of becoming ridiculously reliable when you’re least expecting it. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and I will know you by the shape of your absence

Later, he will remember that it was cold. His breath came out in sharp white clouds and he was almost jogging, striding along with his arms wrapped tight around himself to keep warm. He remembers that he glanced at the painted white brick building out of the corner of his eye and kept on moving for a few steps, until he stopped, dragged himself back, curiosity warring with cold.

He breathed out, in, out again, and fog drifted away from him, quiet and catlike. He bounced a little on his feet, teeth chattering, but the guitar that drifted out the window was intricate and smooth, tumbling over itself, with a slight echo to it that made Ryan think the window it was coming from must open onto a big, empty room. He wondered what it looked like inside for a moment, but only for a little while, distracted by the clarity to the music, the classical climb of notes that he had never learnt. He bit his lip and stepped back a little.

The guitar stumbled to a halt and Ryan heard the voice carry clearly out to him – “Fuck, my fingers are too fucking—” A mumble, a laugh, and then a face appeared very briefly at the window, and the laughter came again. “That’s why it’s so fucking cold,” the voice said, and the window slammed down.

Ryan took a few hesitant steps forward, but he couldn’t hear the music anymore and, oh, it was cold. He turned away and broke into a run – he was late for class.

Later, though, in the heated lecture hall, he will remember the cold.

 

 

 

He bangs into the house and chucks his keys on the table, slamming the door loud enough that he doesn’t have to proclaim his appearance. Spencer appears, making noncommittal noises on his cell and gestures to the kitchen counter. Ryan wanders over and makes Spencer hold an annoyed finger up to his lips when he exclaims, “Oh, hey, Chinese.”

Spencer says, “Uh-huh, uh-huh, alright, bye,” and waits to hear a dial tone before he says, quite calmly, “I told you you’d need a jacket.”

Ryan wonders if it’s his blue lips that gave him away, and screws up his nose. Spencer has opened his mouth and looks like he’s going to deliver a lecture on the importance of avoiding bitter Chicago winters or something equally cheesy, so Ryan directs the subject away with an easy, “I stopped by Starbucks, just now.”

Spencer shuts his mouth and turns to clutch at his mug of coffee and sip at it calmly.

Ryan is quiet for a moment, before he remarks, “Jon says hi,” and Spencer drops the cup and spins around coughing.

Ryan flings himself on the couch and starts laughing, while Spencer cleans up the mess muttering things like _fucker_ , and _I just swallowed it the wrong way, you fucking fucker_ and _it’s not like, Ryan, Ryan, fucking stop laughing_.

Eventually they sprawl on the couch and Spencer puts on a DVD and Ryan falls asleep trapped somewhere underneath Spencer’s armpit, thinking dimly that life has a habit of becoming ridiculously reliable when you’re least expecting it.

 

 

 

It’s the weird thing, laws of the universe or something, where once you stop to notice something you can’t help but see it all the time. And as long as you keep seeing it, you keep thinking about it, and as long as you keep thinking about it, you keep seeing it.

Ryan alters his route just slightly to accommodate for it, almost an acknowledgement, he figures, and he passes the white building every day. He never hears music again, and the one time he cranes his head at an awkward angle to peek in through the window the curtains are drawn, and he guesses it’s empty.

Other people pass by, of course – it’s a busy street – but no one ever stops to look. Once, three guys, all somewhere around his age, hurtle down the hill on bikes. The one in front shouts something undistinguishable, flapping his hand in the direction of the building, and one behind him teeters dangerously, thrown off balance by the guitar strapped to his back. But it’s only later that Ryan thinks of this with a sudden start, wonders if the boy with the guitar is the face he saw at the window that day. He can’t remember what either face looked like, the one at the window, or the fleeting glance at him, maybe, from the boy on the bike.

 

 

 

For a while, he thinks maybe it’s just a ghost, the whole idea of it, the music that day. And that makes him more than a little frightened, because as bad as he’s been before, he’s never imagined stuff. It’s this last thought, he supposes, that makes him pause by the building on his way the next morning again, peering in through the closed window. And this time he’s lucky: there’s a little kid in there plucking painstakingly at a guitar, and, mostly hidden to Ryan, an older guy watching him with his back to the window. He is nodding along, and occasionally he reaches out to steady the kid’s grip on the guitar. Ryan hunches his hands in his pockets and stares.

But the window is closed, and he can’t hear anything. He turns and walks away, and isn’t even a little bit relieved to discover he’s not crazy.

 

 

 

Later that afternoon, he orders his seventh flat white and Jon finally gets the hint, comes to sit across from him.

“So,” Ryan says.

“Hi,” Jon answers, and smiles, nicely.

Ryan fiddles with his hair slightly, and examines the quotes on his paper cup. Jon watches him with patient, warm eyes, and Ryan feels like maybe he’s five years old, or maybe only four. Finally he says, “So there’s that whole guitar thing,” and stops.

Jon says, “Yeah.”

Ryan bites his lip and drains the last of his coffee. “Spencer and me are getting pizza,” he says. “When’s your shift end?”

“Ryan,” Jon begins, and then he stops and tilts his head a little bit, like he’s considering something. Ryan smiles politely at him, and Jon says, “Yeah, okay.”

“I’ll pay,” Ryan says, and Jon grins.

“Awesome, thanks—”

“If you give me your notes from the lecture last week,” Ryan finishes blithely, and Jon laughs.

“I’m off in ten minutes.”

 

 

 

The thing about Spencer, Ryan admires from his vantage position on the kitchen counter, is that as much as he turns red and drops cups whenever you make the slightest innuendo about Jon if Jon’s _not_ around, whenever Jon _is_ , he immediately becomes this cold, disinterested bitch. Ryan would complain, except he’s had enough of sorting out Spencer’s love-life and he’s decided to just let him get on with his own unique way of courting.

(And, okay, yes, sometimes he feels just a little bit guilty when he sees Jon giving Spencer these odd, bewildered, hurt looks, and Spencer just wanders out of the room, leaving Ryan and Jon just sitting there, to “see if anyone’s doing something fun”, but Ryan’s bored of romance and everything that comes with it, damn it, he _is_. Spencer can sort his own shit out.)

Nevertheless: Ryan talks quietly and moves his hands a bit, and through the blur of his voice he imagines maps and territories outlined, suspicious glares over tables where old men hold cigars in khaki uniforms, a white flag raised to the bright dawn. When he has finished, when he has blinked and listened and heard the counter-volley of bullets and the droning of a helicopter, they are on the couch, Jon-Ryan-Spencer or Spencer-Ryan-Jon, depending upon whether you are watching them, their faces, the curious dullness in Ryan’s eyes and the over-brightness of Spencer and Jon’s, or the back of their heads, so you can see the movie, too. Either way, Ryan is in the middle, although he droops after a little while, and falls asleep burrowed behind Spencer.

Jon says, quietly, “Is he okay?”

Spencer looks up and their eyes meet, and for once it is not uncomfortable or rude or even meaningful, just the acknowledgment of a common factor between them. Ryan makes an soft, breathy noise and stretches out enough that his legs land on Jon’s lap.

Spencer shrugs, and smiles awkwardly. “It’s hard to tell, sometimes.”

They watch the rest of the movie in silence. Ryan’s still asleep when it finishes so Spencer stands and walks Jon the few steps to the door. Jon smiles at him and rests his hand on Spencer’s folded arms, just briefly, when he says goodbye, and Spencer looks small when he closes the door, like he has been trapped in the rain, only it hasn’t rained since a week ago. There used to be this little girl who went to his kindergarten, and he remembers her kind of vaguely because she talked like an old lady: A Dry Winter, she would say with wide eyes, But There’s A Cold Wind About.

Spencer, mindful of this, drapes a blanket over Ryan on the couch before he goes to bed.

 

 

 

It’s Tuesday – he walks past the building and out of the corner of his eye catches the flutter of a piece of paper tacked to the door. And before he really knows what he’s doing, he’s walking across to it and bending a little so he can read it without ripping it off.

 _Guitar lessons,_ the paper says, _classical or contemporary. For ages 5-20, $10 per lesson. Contact Brendon Urie for more details_ , and there’s a phone number written in by hand neatly underneath.

He straightens and reads over it again, without thinking, and then a voice behind him goes, “Did you want to learn?”

He turns around and there’s a small, thin guy with dark hair smiling at him and it’s the guy from the window and it’s the guy on the bike and Ryan thinks, _ah_. He folds his arms and stares for a moment, and the guy says, “Oh, you’re older than I thought, sorry.”

“I’m twenty,” Ryan says, “So technically I’d still be eligible for lessons, right?”

“Um,” the guy replies, and he looks surprised, eyebrows raised (not in a rude way, Ryan thinks, more in an honestly surprised way, in a way that suggests he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, his face just _does_ those things sometimes, unconsciously expressive). “I guess? Did you want—”

“No,” Ryan says, and walks away.

 

 

 

His eyes hurt from the smoke and his ears are buzzing just lightly enough to make it hard to understand what anyone’s saying (or attempting to say, in the split seconds of silence between songs), but the boy he’s dancing with bumps his hip against him, and Ryan looks down, looks up, and bumps back, grinding up against him. Spencer would say it’s him being silly and careless again (because Spence never ever says _slut_ ), but Ryan knows that nothing he can ever say will make it appear what it is, which is an utterly calculated decision made in seconds, all the subtle nuances of it traced out to causes and effects and tomorrows that fall in front of Ryan like stars. It is not a particularly beautiful path but the boy flutters eyelashes thick with mascara at him and Ryan wonders if it will leave traces on his skin, like ink, something indefinable and strong.

He thinks he would like that, and he takes the boy home and breathes out quick and sharp when the boy fucks him, so that it aches through his teeth, and he lies coiled on his sheets. The guy waits for him to fall asleep before he leaves, which Ryan appreciates, because Spencer has an early class the next morning and it will be hard to get the stranger out without the two bumping into each other.

When he does wander out with a bundle of dirty sheets, Spencer is about to leave and doesn’t say anything besides, “Can you take the pile of clothes in my room if you’re going to the laundromat?”

And Ryan doesn’t see why not.

 

 

 

He’s squinting into the dryer and trying to decide whether the clothes still look wet when someone squats next to him and peers into his face.

“Oh, hey!” the guy from the building says, and grins. “I thought I recognised you.”

“Um,” Ryan says, and straightens awkwardly, turns the machine back on.

“You ran off pretty quickly the other day,” the guys announces, as though it’s a unique fact. Ryan wonders if maybe he’s managed to find a crazy, and if maybe he’s going to get killed in a – God forbid – laundromat, and then he wonders if maybe that’s something horribly ironic, or if maybe it’s a bitter summation of the times, and then he’s just a little bit disgusted at himself.

“I play already,” he says somewhat desperately. “I don’t, I don’t want guitar lessons.”

The guy laughs. “Oh, dude, no, I worked that one out. I just – I’ve seen you around the place before, you know? A few times?”

“Um,” Ryan says again, and examines his fingernails.

“And—” the guy falters to a stop. “I just kind of thought. I don’t know,” and he laughs, abrupt and unexpected. Ryan looks back up and the guy tilts his head to one side. “I’m Brendon,” he says.

“I know,” Ryan tells him. He hesitates, and then: “I’m Ryan.”

“Cool,” Brendon says, and then he turns this full, unadulterated grin on Ryan and he can’t help but stare, take a step back, and then he’s embarrassed and annoyed, but Brendon doesn’t seem to notice, or care. “So how long have you played?”

“Guitar? Um, I dunno, since I was twelve or something.” He pauses, and wants to walk out, but Brendon’s still smiling at him and nodding like he’s actually interested or something. “But I’m not – I mean, I can’t play, or, like, read notes or anything, I just do chords and stuff. You?”

“Um,” Brendon says, and shifts on the balls of his feet, like he’s uncomfortable, like he wasn’t expecting the question, which is stupid because, Ryan thinks, it’s the obvious polite follow-up. “Since I was five or something. I had to do all the classical stuff. My parents, you know.”

“Sure,” Ryan says, and the dryer whirs to a halt. He makes a small, shrugging gesture to excuse himself and begins unloading the clothes into a huge cotton bag that Spencer’s mom gave him when they moved into the apartment. He feels vaguely embarrassed, like he’s a grandma or something, but when he sneaks a glance at Brendon’s face he’s just standing there, smiling. Ryan pulls out shirts and hums to himself when he sees one particular one – like a reflex, almost.

“Hey,” Brendon says, suddenly, “You like Lucky Boys Confusion?”

Ryan glances down at his hands, wondering for a moment if maybe the guy’s psychic or something, but then he realises that he was humming _Ordinary_. He flushes and mumbles, “Yeah.”

“I have a spare ticket to a show they’re doing this Wednesday,” Brendon says in a bit of a rush. “If you wanted to go, I don’t have anything else to do with it?”

Ryan looks up, startled. “Wait – seriously? Dude, that’s really – I mean, don’t you have a friend who wants it or anything?”

“Most of them are working or have already got tickets,” Brendon shrugs. “I only moved here recently, I don’t know many people yet.”

“Oh,” Ryan says, “Um, yeah, thanks, I’d love it. I mean, seriously, thanks. If you’re sure?”

Brendon grins. “Awesome. You wanna come around my place sometime and pick it up?”

Ryan stills, thinks, _oh_. Then he looks at Brendon’s stupid, silly grin and bites his lip to keep from smiling, thinks _yeah, right_.

“Sure,” he says. “Awesome. Let me drop this stuff off first?”

Brendon scribbles his address on a scrap bit of paper, hands it to Ryan. “I’m home all day tomorrow,” he says.

“Cool,” Ryan answers.

Brendon bounces on his feet again, and then looks awkward. “Okay, well, seeya.”

He tumbles out of the door before Ryan can even say, “Bye.” Ryan glances at the paper, and turns it over to see a clumsy C Major scale drawn out on tab. He shrugs, and tucks it in his jeans.

 

 

 

It’s warming up the next day, so Ryan gets away with a light hoodie when he wanders out of the house. Brendon’s place is only a few blocks away from him and he gets there quickly enough to be left feeling stupid and out of place in front of the grey apartment block. There’s no intercom, and the front door just opens straight away, and Ryan takes secret, selfish comfort in that at least Brendon’s not some kind of rich kid. He climbs four sets of stairs and waits to catch his breath for a moment at the top – clearly, being thin is no sign of being fit.

Finally, he knocks on the door that he figures is Brendon’s (for two reasons; it’s the same number as on the piece of paper Brendon gave him, and it’s also got a piece of masking tape with a smiley face drawn on it in lead pencil stuck to the door) and slouches a bit, hip jutting out and his hair in his face. Spencer would make kissy faces at him if he could see, but he’s comfortable like this, and he knows it doesn’t make him look stupid, at least.

A tiny guy opens the door. Seriously, Ryan knows that he himself isn’t exactly tall, and Brendon was pretty short, too, but this guy is _small_ , with tattoos climbing up his arms and a lip ring. When Ryan looks at him, he realises he’s only a little bit shorter than Ryan himself, but he’s one of those guys that just _looks_ small, immediately. Maybe it’s the (bare) feet, or the huge grin.

The grin fades, though, and the guy says, “Um, can I help you?” He forms the words oddly, with strange inflictions, like he’s not used to such formalities.

Ryan shuffles his feet. “Does Brendon live here?”

And the tiny guy’s looks at him in an confused, polite way that suggests drawn-out vowels and eye-rolls, only apparently this guy’s nicer than that, because all he does is turn around and shout, “Bren?”

Brendon appears, in a pair of tattered jeans and a pink hoodie and he smiles at Ryan and bounces awkwardly on his feet. “Hey. Wanna come in?” He glances swiftly at his roommate, who is hovering with a blank expression but something akin to glee in his eyes, and raises one shoulder just a little. Ryan can’t be sure what it means, but he knows what it _is_ – the unconscious way of speaking you develop when you really _know_ someone, and he recognises it as something a little like the way Spencer will scratch at his neck. Maybe Brendon and the other guy haven’t known each other for that long, because the guy only stretches out his hand and says,

“I’m Frank.”

“Ryan,” he replies, and shakes Frank’s hand. Frank tilts his head and then walks away, with a pent-up energy in his stride that belies his relatively slow steps. They’d be good together, Ryan thinks, Brendon and Frank, both full of that thrumming energy that never seems to stop, both with the smiles that have no degrees to them, no timing or elegance, only a sort of acceptance for everything in their view.

Brendon flaps his hand in a beckoning gesture and turns around and down the hallway. Ryan says, “Um,” and follows him. He figures it’s becoming his catchphrase, which is somewhat ridiculous to say the least.

Brendon disappears into his room for a moment but comes out quickly, and Ryan’s grateful that he didn’t have to linger awkwardly in the hallway, or, worse, follow him in and stand looking stupid in the room of a guy he doesn’t know. Through the crack of the door, though, he can see half of a poster for a band he doesn’t know, and an electric guitar propped up in the corner.

Then Brendon appears and hands him a ticket with a beam, rattling off the time and place. Ryan nods wordlessly and then smiles. “Thanks again, man, this is awesome.”

“No worries,” Brendon says, and they look awkwardly at each other, then away. Ryan wonders if maybe he should offer to meet up before, if Brendon really just wants to get rid of the ticket and doesn’t care that much about seeing Ryan ever again. In the end, Brendon says, “So, I might see you there.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says, and then adds, “Thanks,” and it sounds wrong, now, off key after so much repetition.

And then Brendon walks him to the door and he steps out onto the landing, thinks, _alright, okay, whatever_. And he goes home, and when Spencer asks where he was he shrugs, gives a noncommittal answer and wanders off to his room.

 

 

 

The show’s good. It’s the kind of good where he worms his way up as close to the stage as he can get and it thrums through his bones until there’s nothing else, there’s no Spencer or Jon or college or any of the fucked up kind of things he falls into thinking his life is before he wanders out and there’s only some documentary on and then, yet again, Ryan is So Lucky and he feels guilty and childish.

And he dances and pushes his face up to the music and wishes that he could be this good, that he could somehow make it work enough so that it could be him on that stage, touring, and he’d look down into the crowd and be utterly disconnected from the young nobodies there, and one of them at the same time. And he takes a breath and, unwilling, laughs at himself, and it’s then that bassist looks down at him and grins, straight at him, and Ryan kind of stops still, just for a moment.

He pushes his way out after a while, because he’s been knocked breathless by other people’s elbows in his ribs, and he’s thirsty, and on the sidelines, sipping coke at the bar, he notices Brendon. He’s dancing with a tall, beautiful looking boy and he’s half-laughing and obviously a bit self-conscious, but Ryan can only stare because it’s like nothing he’s ever known before, _nothing_.

He finishes his drink and is about to push back out into the crowd but Brendon presses his fingers just once against the guy’s shoulder and practically falls out of the crowd, laughing. Ryan looks down but Brendon notices him and grabs at his wrist, leans in towards him and Ryan wonders if he’s been drinking, or if maybe he’s just caught on a high from the show, from dancing.

“Hey,” Brendon shouts above the music, “How you doing?”

“Good,” Ryan shouts back, and can’t help grinning back at Brendon, hard, so that he can feel it in his cheeks, “This is a fucking amazing show.” There’s silence for a moment, even among the roar of the music, and Ryan doesn’t look down, for once, just meets Brendon’s eyes and smiles.

Brendon grabs his hand and says, “Dance with me?” Ryan bites his lip and stares for a moment, and looks into the crowd, at the guy who Brendon was dancing with. He’s kind of horribly beautiful, shoulder blades moving with his hips, like a cat, but in the space of Ryan’s distraction Brendon’s expression falls a little bit. Ryan releases a breath and nods, and Brendon grins again, and Ryan is hot all over, from the crowd of bodies that Brendon drags him into and from the unrelenting sunshine of Brendon’s smile.

And they dance, as the singer spits out _here’s your word, you can have it back_ , and Ryan thinks Yes, and pushes against Brendon until they are both breathless, a winding tangle of skin and hair and hands. And Ryan thinks for a moment that this is the same as every night like this, but there’s the bit where Brendon kind of turns his face a little, so subtly that it could be an accident, could be that he didn’t even notice Ryan leaning in with dark intent in his eyes.

Then it’s not like every night, because Ryan goes home alone, cold air cutting into him, with faint white marks which are darkening slightly into faded bruises around his wrist, where Brendon held him tight.

 

 

 

Ryan sleeps in enough that he has to run to make it in time for his first class the next morning, and he stumbles through the rest of the day so tired that he can’t think of _anything_ , let alone the show last night – it’s simply there as a low, contented throb in the ache of his arms, the bruises from the mosh.

The day seems to crawl on forever, and it’s all he can do to make it to Starbucks without falling over. He huddles into a booth and Jon takes his break with him. They talk idly about things that aren’t of much importance – Ryan remembers the show.

It’s getting dark when he sets back for home, and he almost misses the dark shadow in front of the building, but then it shouts, “Ryan?”

Without even realising what he’s doing, he turns around and smiles a soft, content sort of smile, fading a little on his face, almost like the way he smiles at Spencer or Jon, and he waits for Brendon to finish locking up and bounce down the path towards him.

“Hey,” Brendon breathes, and knocks his shoulder against Ryan’s in greeting. “You look tired.”

“I’m sore,” Ryan says truthfully.

“Me too,” Brendon grimaces, “I didn’t think that many people would be there. I mean, even more than usual.” They fall into step and end up walking together back to Ryan’s place. He hesitates outside the door and bounces from foot to foot, and Brendon looks up curiously at a window.

“You – you want to come in?” Ryan says, almost nervously.

Brendon smiles regretfully and shrugs. “I can’t, I’ve really got to study for this thing tomorrow. Um. Hey, did you maybe wanna hang out sometime? It’s cool if you’re, if you’re busy or whatever, but—”

“Sure,” Ryan says, and blinks a little, having succeeded to surprise himself. Brendon grins, though, and Ryan digs around in his backpack for a pen and scribbles down his number on the back of an old assignment sheet. “So, call me sometime,” he says, and Brendon nods, takes the paper.

“I will,” he answers, and tilts his head, as if considering Ryan a little bit. Then he shoves the paper in his pocket and laughs for no apparent reason, and Ryan wonders at the complete ease with which Brendon laughs, the freeness of it. He thinks that maybe Brendon’s laughter has a bit of his soul in it, and that’s why he likes it so much, but then he thinks that if that’s so, well then sooner or later Brendon’s just going to run out of soul. And then he thinks maybe he’s analysing things a little bit too deeply and he just nods at Brendon’s cheerful, “seeya!” and goes up the stairs to his apartment two at a time.

 

 

 

Brendon calls a couple of days later and they go out to see a movie, arguing amiably in the theatre for a while as to what one to see, but in the end they compromise and go for something funny. Ryan thinks it’s one of those nice, generic films that slips out of your head as quickly as it slips in, the kind that every now and again he amuses himself by trying to remember details from it late at night.

But Brendon’s fun to go to a movie with, and he whispers asides to Ryan throughout the whole thing, some that are so funny that Ryan clings to the arm of his seat and wheezes for breath and others that are so horribly lame that he groans out loud. When it ends, they wander out and around the streets for a while, until Ryan realises with a start that they’re outside Starbucks, and he realises with equal surprise that he doesn’t want to go home, just yet.

They go in and Brendon orders hot chocolate and is introduced to Jon. Jon grins at him and Brendon notices with a barely suppressed squawk of delight that he’s wearing a badge with Ariel from The Little Mermaid pinned to his shirt. Jon laughs and says, “Oh, yeah, Sue put it on me today,” and nods towards another barista. “It’s an awesome movie.”

And then Brendon bursts into song and Jon joins in and Ryan leans his head a little bit against the wall and just watches, not feeling left out or anything stupid and sulky like that but just content to be an outsider for the moment. Besides, Brendon kind of has an amazing voice, and Ryan wonders what else, and starts to add them up in his head: guitar and voice and completely hyperactive and hot chocolate, not coffee, thanks. He still doesn’t think that he’s got the full picture yet, but he sits quiet just in case Brendon’s going to show a little bit more to Jon.

Ryan hears Brendon ask, curiously, “Are you and Sue, you know, dating?” and watches a little more closely. He wonders if Jon notices when he replies.

“No,” Jon says, and grins at Ryan, and that makes Ryan think that Jon _did_ notice. “Ryan’s roommate’s currently breaking my heart all on his lonesome.”

Brendon looks back at Ryan and Ryan shrugs, rolls his eyes. Jon was joking, Ryan knows, but he files it away in his List Of Things To Say To Spencer When Spencer Starts Talking About Something He, Ryan, Doesn’t Want To Discuss.

And Ryan kind of half-closes his eyes again and Brendon’s leg is tapping by his side, jittering up and down because he really can’t stay still, and Ryan kind of likes it, anyway, the warmth of it against his leg. He likes Brendon, he realises, more than he’s liked anyone besides Jon and Spencer for a long time, and he thinks that maybe, he’ll try not to be too bitchy for a while.

The next morning, the first thing he remembers when he wakes up is that Brendon’s crashed on his couch. He’s not sure whether this is a nice thing or not.

 

 

 

It sort of becomes this thing, then, and Brendon’s just the person Ryan sort of gravitates to when he’s not doing anything else, or even when he is doing something. It’s not like he’s replacing Spencer, because he really, _really_ isn’t, and Ryan knows that nobody could. Spencer was there for the whole _thing_ , for the whole getting out of Vegas and his dad – whatever. But Brendon’s warm and he has this habit of invading your personal space which is almost comforting after a while (okay, yes, it _is_ comforting, fine), and once he stops being awkward around you (which takes all of a few hours) he really is one of the most fun people Ryan knows.

So Brendon joins Jon and Spencer and Ryan’s movie nights, and he helps with that, too, unknowingly. It’s easily done: Brendon and Jon arrive and Brendon’s hanging all over Jon and Spencer kind of tightens his grip on his phone and then leans into Ryan in an exaggerated sort of way (Ryan doesn’t mind, enjoys the game as much as anyone), and Ryan thinks Jon looks curiously at Spencer, almost warmly. Anything that helps them sort of muddle along is fine with Ryan, anyway, and he drags Brendon off to listen to a new CD he bought.

When Ryan falls asleep on the couch that night, as usual, he’s not alone. He wakes up with a crick in his neck and Brendon burrowed into his side and when he moves, Brendon makes a stupid little muttering noise and Ryan thinks _fine, whatever_ , and rolls closer.

They wake up properly after a while, and Brendon murmurs, close to Ryan’s ear, “They talked last night, Spencer and Jon. For _ages_.”

“That’s a first,” Ryan yawns, and struggles to sit up.

“Was Jon joking when he said Spence’s breaking his heart?” Brendon asks, and his eyes are overly bright.

Ryan shrugs, uneasily. “I don’t know,” he says, and begins to hunt around for a hoodie. It’s cold.

The novelty wears off, after a while, but Ryan doesn’t mind, so much – he’s used to things happening in patterns, and even though he hates it he acknowledges the benefits. He doesn’t seem to notice the building where Brendon gives guitar lessons (to pay his way through college, Brendon tells Ryan, and Ryan would have asked more, What Degree Are You Doing, and the like, except Brendon’s eyes are kind of closed up and Ryan just shuts up) anymore, but he notices Brendon, when he walks towards him, when he leans into Ryan, when he falls asleep on Ryan and Spencer’s couch. He wonders, sometimes, but never for very long.

Because he _likes_ Brendon; likes the way he laughs, loud and brash, and the way he knocks on their door one afternoon and Ryan opens it to find a huge Christmas tree and Brendon’s face peeking between the green branches. “It wouldn’t fit in our apartment,” Brendon says apologetically.

Ryan says, “And you thought it’d fit _here_?” But somehow he ends up helping Brendon drag it in anyway and Brendon’s brought a brown box of decorations and they twine lights around it and baubles and Ryan clambers onto Brendon’s shoulders via the couch (Brendon grunts and says “How are you so _heavy_?”) to position the star. It’s wonky, but Brendon tilts his head to the side and says, smiling stupidly, “It looks fine from here.”

Spencer comes back and laughs hysterically for about fifteen minutes, because Ryan’s hair is sticking up in every direction and they both have pine needles all over them (Brendon grabs Ryan’s hands and sniffs the palms, before declaring triumphantly, “He smells like a Christmas tree, too”) and are both red-faced and out of breath.

“Some people have sex,” Spencer remarks gleefully, “And you two put up Christmas trees,” and then Ryan yelps in disgust and they tackle him to the ground.

Brendon comes over for Christmas (“Frank’s staying with his boyfriend,” he tells them, “And you can’t let me be _alone_ ,”) and they sit up late with Jon (who doesn’t make an excuse as to why he’s come, only grins and hands over a box of frozen sticky date pudding) and eat cherries that Spencer has procured from a mysterious source. Ryan drifts off to Brendon hanging half-on, half-off an armchair, absently plucking at his guitar. In the kitchen, Jon sings quietly along, like he doesn’t even realise that he’s doing it: _silent night, holy night_. Ryan threads his fingers through Spencer’s and looks vaguely embarrassed when Spencer looks back at him with bright affection in his eyes. He falls asleep a little after two, when Brendon and Jon have moved on to a gleeful acoustic version of _Hips Don’t Lie_.

In the morning, there’s no presents, but Brendon brought bonbons and they sit around with stupid paper crowns on their heads and mock the sappy TV shows that are on (except for when _Love Actually_ comes on, and then Brendon and Jon cover Spencer and Ryan’s mouths so they can hear it properly). Ryan is happier than he has been in a long time, and Spencer looks over with a self-satisfied smirk that tells Ryan he knows.

And then, one week after Christmas, Ryan’s dad dies, and that fucks everything up.

 

 

 

Spencer tells him, and his face is kind of cold and frightened and far away. Ryan can only think in terms of snatches of words, of _home_ (which is regretted, quickly, and burrowed away – this is home now, damn it, this is home) and _God_ (and he doesn’t know, he really doesn’t) and very quietly _selfish_ (and he doesn’t know who that applies to).

All he says is, “When’s the funeral?”

Spencer says, “This weekend,” and Ryan nods, starts adding up totals in his head – a plane ticket for this, and he’ll need a hotel room because damn it he’s _not_ staying with relatives.

There’s a knock at the door and Ryan’s hunched on the couch so Spencer pads to open it, and Brendon bounds in.

“Guess what I saw at the—” he begins gleefully, and then catches the look on Spencer’s face. “What,” he says, and then more panicked, “What, Spence?”

Spencer says, quietly, “Ryan’s dad died,” and before he can go on Brendon’s tumbled through into the tiny lounge room and he’s on the couch curled around Ryan, breathing into his neck. Ryan’s shaking a little, and his throat and his mouth aren’t working properly, but when Spence edges into the room and says, “Brendon, maybe you should, um,” Ryan reaches out and folds his fingers around Brendon’s arm, keeps him close.

Spencer says, “Yeah, okay.”

Brendon says, “Ryan, _Ry_ , God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” And then he stops, which is a surprise, because Ryan’s used to Brendon’s babbling. Instead, he just pushes close again, and Ryan closes his eyes, thinks rather numbly that he could fall asleep, except Brendon doesn’t understand, and Ryan doesn’t like that. He twists his head around to survey Spencer, and there’s a silent exchange there. Spencer nods, tiredly, just once.

“Brendon,” Spencer whispers, and then clears his throat, talks in a normal voice again. “Brendon, it’s kind of complicated.”

“What?” Brendon says, and moves enough to stare at Spencer. “How is it – what? He didn’t, he didn’t kill himself or do anything – anything terrible, did he?”

Ryan takes a shuddering breath. “No,” he says, and then looks at Spencer again, smiles a little sadly. “Go on, then.”

Spencer bites his lip, and then sits down and tells Brendon the story of why he and Ryan moved to Chicago.

Brendon says, “Fuck.”

 

 

 

(Ryan doesn’t like telling the story. He’s not that good at it, for one – he gets tangled up in words sometimes when he’s trying to push them straight out onto his tongue, isn’t filtering them through black scrawl in his notebook first; and he begins to forget exactly what people said, how things happened, it all becomes a colourful blur of events.

He remembers it, of course, but it’s so much clearer in his head, narrowing itself down to a few key factors: his dad, Ryan’s inability to bear it anymore, and Spencer’s impenetrable, unshakeable strength.

Sometimes, Ryan thinks that maybe he’s just a bit weak, because his dad wasn’t nearly as bad as others, but he also knows that he was bad enough. And he knows that life in Chicago might be too reliable at times but it’s also a kind of reliability where even though nothing particularly amazing happens, nothing makes Ryan have trouble breathing, either.

But that’s before his mom calls Spencer, of course (beforeBrendon).

And he _really_ doesn’t know where that thought came from.)

 

 

 

Spencer comes with him, back home, even though he tries to say he’ll be okay. He’s only just managed to scrape the money together, he doesn’t know how Spencer got it, but he doesn’t ask, either. The funeral is bleak and grey and it rains, which Ryan thinks is a little bit cliché, but he kind of likes the chance to say goodbye. A proper one, this time, and then there’s the sinking feeling of guilt, the same as when he saw his two younger cousins, and one of them laughed and cried when she saw him and clung to his leg, and the other one didn’t know who he was.

Spencer sits beside him the whole time, and Ryan doesn’t have to look up to know he’s there, keeping an eye on him for a lot of it, and he’s kind of quietly grateful for that. But he doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t.

He becomes vaguely aware after a while of an odd ripping sensation in his chest, and it’s nothing like any kind of grief he’s ever read about, it’s just uncomfortable as fuck and it kind of makes him want to bite things, or press close and feel blood and another heartbeat warm against his skin.

When they get back home (home, home; repeat it like timetables, so he doesn’t forget again), late afternoon, Ryan’s shaking again, and even though Spencer reaches out and touches his wrist anxiously, he almost tumbles out of the house and onto the street.

He’s not even aware of where he’s going, horrible and overused as that sounds, until he gets to Brendon’s apartment. Neither Frank nor Brendon are home, and Ryan folds himself into a sitting position on the doorstep, closes his eyes, waits.

 

 

 

He opens them when Brendon says, “Ryan?” in a slow, surprised voice, and he wonders if he maybe fell asleep a bit, because he didn’t hear Brendon’s footsteps. He stands up and pushes his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

“Can I, can I come in for a little while?” and he doesn’t know what he’s doing, doesn’t have a complete idea, just the beat-beat-beat of his pulse and he sucks in a breath, feels it fill him, odd and incomplete. Brendon regards him quizzically for a moment and then unlocks the door and steps inside and before he knows what he’s doing, Ryan pushes in after him and presses him hard up against the wall, leans close and bangs his mouth against Brendon’s, at this terrible, awkward angle and he thinks his lip is bleeding.

Brendon lets out a small, stuttering gasp into Ryan’s mouth and Ryan kicks the door closed and snatches at Brendon’s collar, shoves him through the tiny hallway and towards Brendon’s bedroom. He licks at Brendon’s mouth and breaks away for a ragged gasp of air, but he doesn’t look at Brendon when he does, doesn’t want to see his face, and then he presses close again.

But Brendon curls one hand around his waist and murmurs _Ry, Ryan_ against his mouth and it’s not something of pleasure but infinitely sad, and Ryan doesn’t want Brendon to be that sad, he really doesn’t, but he doesn’t know what else to _do_. And Brendon breaks away and threads his fingers through Ryan’s and takes him into his bedroom but he doesn’t kiss him or push him down, he only steadies him and makes him stand by the doorway while he makes his bed. And then he hands Ryan a pair of his own pajamas and says, “I’ll be right back,” and disappears.

Ryan’s still shaking, but he manages to get dressed. The lights are so bright, he doesn’t quite know what’s happening. Brendon’s pajama pants are too short for him; they hang awkwardly above his ankles.

Brendon reappears with a glass of water and Ryan gulps at it greedily, and then Brendon draws back the covers and guides Ryan in, folds the blankets up to his chin. Ryan folds his hands between his legs and shivers and shivers, and Brendon presses a kiss to his temple and goes and switches out the light.

He’s about to leave, but Ryan whispers, “Brendon, Bren, I’m so cold.” Brendon hesitates for a moment and then he sighs and tugs off his jeans and climbs in behind Ryan in his t-shirt and boxers. He slings an arm around Ryan and presses close and Ryan breathes out steady, and closes his eyes.

And after a while, he stops shaking, and then he can go to sleep.

 

 

 

He wakes up and Brendon’s gone, but there’s a note hastily scribbled on the bedside table. He picks it up and draws his knees up to his chest.

The note says: _Gone to class. Food in fridge if you’re hungry. No worries if you’re going home, but please call me tonight? I’m back at five. :)_

Ryan stands up and gets dressed, hunts around the room and finds his sidekick and a crumpled piece of folded paper with his writing fading through, stuffs them in his pockets. He stands blankly in front of Brendon’s fridge for a while, but in the end just grabs a Red Bull. Frank doesn’t appear to be home, either. Ryan wonders if Brendon made sure he wouldn’t be.

He doesn’t think about what he did last night, with some determination. Instead he sniffs Brendon’s pajama shirt surreptitiously and bundles it up to carry home. He looks odd, walking down the street with a pair of balled up pajamas but he tells himself it’s only polite to wash them before he gives them back.

 

 

 

He arrives home with the same kind of clatter of the door crashing and keys skidding across the table as always, only it’s kind of muted, today, like someone turned down the volume. But it’s loud enough to bring Spencer into the room, and they stand watching each other for a while, warily, almost uneasily. Ryan thinks that something has changed, an almost unnoticeable alteration in the dynamics between them, and lets out a shaky breath.

“I should have called you,” he mutters, and looks away.

Spencer’s voice is perfectly calm. “It’s okay. Brendon did.”

Ryan says, “Um,” and looks away. For a horrible, terrifying moment his mind races and Spencer-Watching-Him turns into Spencer-Standing-With-Bags-Packed and he wants to say _sorry_ , wants to say _Spencer, Spence, please, don’t look at me like that_ but even as it wells up harsh in his throat he looks up and Spencer’s crossed the room, is standing in front of him with his arms hanging loosely at his sides.

“Did you do something stupid?” Spencer asks.

Ryan narrows his eyes in a split second decision for the affronted approach. “What?”

“You have that look in your eyes,” Spencer tells him.

Ryan mumbles, “Maybe,” and Spencer steps forward again and folds his arms around him, warm and cool at the same time, familiar and comfortable and that’s home, Ryan thinks, home’s with Spencer, wherever he is, that’s why he gets Chicago and Vegas mixed up sometimes, on the days when he wakes up and wonders how many empty bottles he’ll find in the kitchen this morning.

“It’ll be okay,” Spencer murmurs, and because Spencer says it, it has to be true. Ryan closes his eyes, and swallows, and nods.

 

 

 

And, yeah, it is. Brendon doesn’t come around for a few days (and Ryan doesn’t _fret_ , no matter what Jon says, drawling out stupid remarks with wide, innocent eyes and Spencer doubled over with laughter in the corner) and Ryan’s maybe a little worried, but he’s also too cold inside to find much room for emotions.

Instead, he goes back to college, and he doesn’t notice that he unconsciously changed his route so he doesn’t pass the building where Brendon teaches guitar. He goes to a party, one night, but the lights keep flashing and making him dizzy and kind of nauseous so he leaves early, despite the girl by the stairs who caught his gaze and held it.

He makes a few half-hearted attempts to get started on an essay but doesn’t _really_ get into it until the night before it’s due, and that means another all-nighter with Spencer getting up every few hours and grumbling and making Ryan more coffee (because he can’t sleep properly, he says, with Ryan clacking away in the next room). The next day he stumbles through his morning classes in a daze and then comes home and collapses on the sofa, and falls asleep halfway through Spencer’s story about the asshole in his last class.

He wakes up a few hours later to loud, familiar laughter and Brendon’s leaning against the end of the couch talking to Spencer, hands moving wildly in the air. Ryan sits up and Spencer catches his eye and smiles, and Brendon notices, turns around to raise an eyebrow at Ryan.

“Are you hibernating at the moment, Ross?” he says. “You seem to be in a perpetual state of sleep.”

Ryan flips him off and then yawns, ruining the effect. Brendon laughs and strolls over to pout down at him and ruffle his hair – Ryan glares, and bats his hands away. Spencer looks at them oddly, and then walks out of the room with a mumbled comment.

Brendon climbs over the back of the sofa and lands on Ryan’s ribs, muttering, “Sorry, sorry,” to Ryan’s yelp. Finally he clambers his way to the other side and then curls up around him, faces close together. Ryan is going slightly cross-eyed, but Brendon just winds tighter around him and whispers, “Go back to sleep.”

Ryan yawns and shifts slightly, so that he can press his face against Brendon’s chest briefly, a split second of something like acknowledgement. He’s not sure what for – that Brendon’s here, maybe. He likes that, and it makes him think of something else as he drifts back to sleep.

“Brendon,” he murmurs, voice thick and drowsy, “Brendon, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” Brendon says, voice soothing. “Go to sleep, Ry, I’m not angry.” Ryan’s eyes drift closed and he hears Brendon remark thoughtfully, sounding as though he’s a mile away, “I would like my pajamas back at some stage, though.”

 

 

 

He’s not sure _what_ Brendon thinks of him, now, but he’s gratified to realise that it’s something which hasn’t changed Brendon’s exterior attitude to Ryan, at least. And he gets tired of just _thinking_ , some days, let alone analysing, so he lets it be, and life shifts by, a little slower, a little more hollow, but much the same as always.

He likes, though, that _Brendon_ is never the same as ever, that he seems to build on the same basic characteristics to be something new every day. He counts the various Brendons, drifting away from him in straight lines and a vaguely melancholy manner: stupid, goofy Brendons with ever-present grins; clever, sly Brendons with soft, witty comments that bounce off his lips easily and make Ryan laugh, short and surprised; occasionally even soft, almost sad Brendons with shadows under his eyes and a pinprick of red on his lower lip from biting it; and, far away now, as the other Brendons file past in their line, the Brendon that looked at Ryan oddly one night and pressed his fingers hard and curious against an old scar. Sometimes, Ryan thinks that Brendon will simply run out of selves, and what will he do then? But then he has trouble working out whether the ‘he’ is Brendon or Ryan, and the obvious solution is to stop thinking about it.

(Besides, he watches Brendon change every day and can’t help but feel his own skin too heavily, old and tired.)

And Brendon is _there_ , always, so that sometimes Ryan feels cold and cruel and he answers Brendon’s chatter with terse, softly rude remarks, until Brendon shuts up as well and clamps his mouth shut and then stares at Ryan with a perfectly crafted sullen expression on his face. Ryan will either stalk off or laugh, and either way after a while he’s ready to be around other people again.

But other times he leans straight back into Brendon’s touch, and they walk with heads bent together, fingers lingering on hips or arms slung around shoulders. And sometimes there’s something burning and tight in Ryan’s chest, in his breath. He’s not stupid when it comes to these things, he’s really not, but that also means he’s not stupid enough to repeat past mistakes. He _remembers_ the curve of Brendon’s fingers around his wrist, he remembers the soft, sad way Brendon said his name.

And he’s happy, he supposes, or closer to it than he has ever been before (except maybe for the time he flew across states and gripped Spencer’s hand tight the whole way – but he’s not scared as well, not this time).

 

 

 

He’s getting dressed when his sidekick buzzes against his desk, and he picks it up for a message from Brendon: _running l8, meet me @ wrk?_ For one ridiculous moment he stops, and tries to remember where Brendon works, but then, _oh_ , and the white building rises out of his mind like something holy, a faint glow lingering around the edges of it.

He blinks, and rolls his eyes; pulls his shirt on, and texts back _sure_.

He’s running early, and Brendon’s still inside when he pulls open the door and hesitantly walks in. His feet echo on the floorboards and he feels too heavy, too tall, too loud. But he passes a few empty rooms and then finally peers in one window to see the back of Brendon’s head and a little kid, sitting close and facing each other, both holding acoustic guitars. The kid’s face is creased with concentration and he gnaws on his lip as he plucks his way painstakingly through something, finishes with a breathy exhalation. He says something, eyes wide and earnest, and Brendon turns his head to the side to hide a smile, and catches sight of Ryan at the window. Ridiculously, Ryan’s stomach clenches a little when Brendon’s eyes light up, and at Brendon’s impatient tilt of head, he hesitates slightly, and then slips inside.

“Tommy, this is a friend of mine, Ryan,” Brendon says. “You don’t mind if he sits in on the last few minutes, do you?”

Tommy says, “nope,” cheerfully enough, and Ryan sits down on a chair in the corner, folds his arms. Brendon turns back to his student and they continue on with one last tune (Ryan is loathe to call it a song). They finish quickly enough, and Brendon takes Tommy’s notebook, writes out a list of things to practice until next week. Ryan notices that he writes carefully, keeping each letter separate and clean, unlike his usual scrawl. He hands it back to Tommy, who is beaming expectantly.

“Has your friend heard you play your song?” he asks gleefully. Brendon tosses a grin over his shoulder at Ryan.

“What song?” Ryan asks.

“The Spanish one,” the kid answers, and Ryan says,

“I haven’t heard it, no.”

“Play it!” Tommy exclaims, smiling so hard it must hurt his cheeks. “Go on, Brendon!”

Brendon laughs and shakes his head, opens his mouth, but Ryan cuts in quietly – “go on, Brendon.”

Brendon’s eyes are maybe a little bit confused when they land on Ryan, but he shrugs and says, “Fine.” He curls around his guitar and then begins, just a few hesitant notes at first, but it builds up until it’s the climbing, falling, rippling song Ryan remembers from standing outside the window that day. Brendon’s mouth is open slightly, and his fingers tumble and stretch over the strings, all that Ryan has ever dreamed of playing like. All of a sudden, he feels very cold. He closes his eyes.

Brendon finishes, no slight wind down but a breathless stop in the middle of a fast section. Ryan opens his eyes and Brendon’s watching him uncertainly, eyes dark and almost afraid. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, and he flushes, swallows, begins again. “I can’t remember the rest without the sheet music,” he says, and Tommy turns away, begins to pack up his guitar. Brendon lays his to the side and stands up, arms hanging loosely by his sides, still watching Ryan with almost frightened eyes.

Ryan tilts his head to the side and says, quietly, “We should get a move on.”

“Right,” Brendon says, and pulls out his guitar case. “You mind if we stop by Frank’s work so I can give him my guitar to take home? It’s just around the corner.”

“Sure,” Ryan says, and Tommy shouts seeya, and clatters out. They walk out, and Brendon locks up, hair falling in his eyes. Ryan’s fingers twitch.

They set off down the street in silence, and then after a while Ryan says, slyly, “Jon asked Spencer out today.”

Brendon laughs, and says, “Finally? How? What did Spencer say?”

Ryan grins. “He texted him about a movie he was going to see, and asked if Spencer wanted to go with. He said he should warn him that he would expect at least a kiss on the cheek if he bought the tickets _and_ the popcorn.”

“And Spencer?”

“Replied that _he’d_ buy the popcorn. But he’s going, at least, even after giving me a very long rundown on all the reasons he _shouldn’t_.” Ryan shrugs. “All’s fair in love and war.”

Brendon grinned ruefully. “Poor Jon.” He hesitated. “Why does – Ryan, Spencer _likes_ Jon. He really, _really_ likes him. You’ve got to have seen the way he, he looks at him, like Jon’s everything.” His voice is oddly quiet, almost raw. “Ryan, you’ve _seen_ him.”

Ryan says, calmly, “Yes.”

“Why does he put up such a fight, then? Honestly, I’ve – I’ve seen people crazy in love enough to know what it looks like. Why won’t he give Jon a chance?”

Ryan hesitates and then says, very softly, “Back in Vegas—” and stops, involuntarily. But it’s enough; there’s things that can make Brendon shut up or babble apologetic nonsense, and Vegas is one of the best. Ryan wonders how conscious Brendon must be of the fact that he wasn’t there, then, wasn’t part of Spencer-and-Ryan, and it makes him feel uneasy, and cruel. As it is, though, Brendon’s eyes widen, and he says he in a rush of words—

“No, sorry, don’t – you don’t have to tell me, I know it’s – it’s you and Spence, it’s always been, you’re best friends. I shouldn’t have, have asked—”

Ryan stops and faces Brendon in the darkening street. He lays two cold fingers against his jaw for a moment and then presses their foreheads together. Brendon’s dark, dark eyes swim in and out of focus. “Hey,” he whispers. “Hey. I trust you. Spence trusts you. Brendon, it’s _okay_.”

And Brendon moves away, and nods. They walk on, but Brendon grabs his hand and Ryan laces their fingers together as he speaks. “It’s not really, it’s not that big a deal? Only there was this guy, back in Vegas, and he used to be one of our best friends. I mean, we did _everything_ together. And then after a while he and Spence, um, got together. It was kind of one of those inevitable things that everyone had been expecting? But, yeah, Spence was pretty gone. He – he seems tough, but he falls hard, you know?

“Anyway, then they finished school, and I’d waited a year to start college with Spencer, so we were all going to go together. But then I had that big fight with my dad. And we – we had to go. _I_ had to go, really, leave Vegas, but Spence, he – he would never let me go alone. But this guy, um, Brent, he obviously wasn’t leaving with us.

“There was, I don’t know, a lot of bad blood in Vegas. And Brent – afterwards, I used to kind of hate him for a while, but he was one of my best friends, too, so it’s kind of hard not to see that he was just a scared kid, like, like we all were. But he said some pretty horrible things to Spence, and yeah, Spence. Spence falls hard.” He paused, and swallowed. “I think, I think some part of Spencer is still kind of in love with Brent? Because there’s that whole thing, you know, that cliché – you never forget your first real love. I don’t know. That’s it, really.”

“Okay,” Brendon says, quietly, and he squeezes Ryan’s hand, just once. They walk on in silence, and then they turn the corner and Brendon starts singing songs by The Cranberries in Ryan’s ear.

 

 

 

Frank’s work is a tiny café with artsy students lounging around on sofas and a girl with piercing and rings of blue tattooed down her arms (as well as the kindest eyes Ryan has ever seen) behind the counter. When she sees Brendon she smiles harder than Ryan thought possible and skips around the corner to fling herself at him, holding him tight. Her eyes are strangely bright and Ryan shifts uneasily, wondering what it is about Brendon that makes her want to cry. But finally she takes a step back and puts her hands on her hips, draws in a deep breath.

“So where have you been, Brendon Urie?” she demands.

Brendon shrugs and says, casually, “Around.” But his eyes are warm and crinkling at the edges, and Ryan wonders if maybe he’s in love with this girl.

“Who’s your friend?” she asks, eyes lingering on Ryan for the first time. He resists the urge to cross his arms under her keen gaze.

“This is Ryan,” Brendon announces, and there’s the warm pressure of his hand on Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan resists the urge to sink closer to him. “Ryan, this is—”

“Katie Kay,” she finishes, and steps forward to shake his hand. Her grip is warm and her hands are callused, and Ryan can’t help but smile at her.

“Nice to meet you,” he says.

She nods at him, and murmurs, “Likewise.” For an odd moment, he thinks she’s going to curtsey, but she turns back to Brendon and says, “Frank’s out the back.” Her eyes are mischievous.

Brendon laughs, looking delighted. “Not again?”

Katie only shrugs and makes her way back to the counter. Brendon says, “Come on,” and guides Ryan through a STAFF ONLY door and out into a little courtyard behind the building. There are picnic tables and potted plants, as well as a parking area which seems to be a little bit superfluous – there is only one car, a black one that Ryan has seen parked outside Brendon’s apartment sometimes, and then a bright blue motorcycle and three bikes. All this takes Ryan a while to notice, as his gaze is drawn at first to the two men kissing enthusiastically against a wall, one with shaggy black hair (currently pressing a knee between the other’s legs) and the other with tattoos that Ryan recognises – Frank.

Brendon grins and then gasps out, “ _Frank Anthony Iero_! What is this behaviour?”

Sheepishly, the two break apart, and Frank says, “Fuck you, Brendon,” and then, “Oh, hey, Ryan.” The other guy ducks his head smiling, hiding behind a curtain of black hair. “Ryan, this is Gerard, a very nice person. Gerard, this is Ryan, Friend of Fuckhead here.”

“Hi,” Gerard says, and his voice is soft and surprisingly sweet, contrary to the Scary Vampire look he is wearing. He also appears almost painfully shy – his gaze darts away when Ryan says, _hey_ , back.

Frank’s eyes light on the guitar case slung over Brendon’s shoulder and he produces his car keys, holding his other hand out wordlessly. Brendon hands it over with an “Awesome, thanks,” and Frank goes to put it in the car. Ryan and Gerard’s eyes meet and they smile together, both recognising the well-oiled mechanism of the familiar.

“We’d better go,” Ryan says quietly, glancing at the time on his sidekick.

Brendon nods and smiles at the other guys. “We’re going to a movie. Seeya later.”

When they leave, Brendon briefs Ryan in a low voice: “Gerard and Frank have been together for _forever_ now. Gee’s really shy but all kinds of awesome when you get to know him, he’s great fun, and he gets all the obscure stuff you want. One of them is always at the other’s place, it’s kind of weird seeing them apart sometimes.” He laughs loudly, self-consciously.

The movie’s good, but Ryan feels tired from the rush of people crowding his brain: Spencer and Jon and Brent, Frank and Gerard, and Katie Kay. They flicker in and out of focus and in the end he just rests his head against Brendon’s shoulder, and inconspicuously falls asleep.

 

 

 

Brendon falls asleep halfway through _Robin Hood_ , which is a shock because, hello, it’s _Disney_. But he makes a muffled yawning noise and then slumps down on Ryan’s legs, head in his lap and when Ryan next looks down he’s asleep, dribbling a little bit on Ryan’s knee. Ryan wipes it off with a bit of Brendon’s t-shirt and makes a face, and then looks up to see Spencer laughing.

“What?” he growls, and Spencer grins and pulls on his jacket. “You’re going out?” Ryan asks, surprised.

“I’m meeting Jon,” Spencer answers, and then shrugs at Ryan’s raised eyebrow. “He’s – I like him.”

“I know,” Ryan says simply.

Spencer shrugs again but his cheeks are pink, and he’s smiling. He looks at Brendon again and then says, “Ryan—”

“I _know_ ,” Ryan repeats.

Spencer frowns. “No, Ryan,” he says, as he opens the door, “I don’t think you do.”

 

 

 

That night, Brendon stays asleep and Ryan doesn’t put on another DVD after _Robin Hood_ finishes. Instead, he settles himself as comfortably as possible (which is somewhat harder than usual with Brendon’s head butting at his ribs every now and again and his feet nestled underneath Ryan’s knees) and lies for hours half asleep, half gazing at the ceiling, mind drifting aimlessly.

Spencer arrives home late, and Ryan pretends to be asleep, sneaks a glance at Spencer’s rumpled hair, his red mouth, and doesn’t smile, and doesn’t frown. But when Spencer’s finished in the bathroom and goes into his room, Ryan waits for about half an hour before he slides off the couch, careful not to wake Brendon, and tiptoes into Spencer’s room.

He slips under the covers and winds one arm around Spencer’s waist, presses his face to Spencer’s back and breathes deeply. Spencer doesn’t wake up.

 

 

 

Things are okay, in the grey Chicago winter, but February drifts by in a sort of dream and then it is spring. The air is subtly warmer and Brendon and Jon arrive one night with flowers tucked behind their ears and ones held out for Ryan and Spencer (Spencer accepts his, grudgingly, but Ryan tells Brendon to fuck off and ignores the disappointed face Brendon makes).

And as the days pass, Ryan feels like he’s warming up after being frozen, a slow tingle in his limbs when he moves, an odd something almost like pain (but worth it for what will come next) in his feet and hands and back, especially when Brendon folds himself over Ryan and clings close and murmurs stupid things in Ryan’s ear that would look like a lover’s whispers to a passer-by but in reality are more about things like the upcoming _Transformers_ movie and the latest episode of the Frank and Gerard Cuteness of Doom (Brendon has, to Ryan’s disgust, given them names: episode twenty-seven is Return To The Apartment. episode thirty-two is The Picnic Massacre – referring to all the people who choked on their own tongues going _awh_ – and episode forty-one is The Invasion Of Dashing Mr Urie’s Bedroom. secretly, Ryan likes that one best).

Ryan doesn’t want this – the unsettling, sinking feeling when Brendon yawns and says, “I’d better go”, the crawling spread of warmth in his palms when Brendon grabs his hand, but he can’t _help_ it either. He thinks maybe he is perfectly fine to just continue on like this, but maybe he’s not so used to not doing what he feels like, and his body, at least, certainly doesn’t understand that what he feels like doing to _Brendon_ isn’t nearly the same as what he’s felt like doing to other people before.

It becomes a confused, clumsy argument in his head so often that in the end he just gets sick of it. They’re at Brendon’s apartment one afternoon when Ryan lays down the controller for the video game and crawls over to Brendon, looks straight at him.

Brendon says, “Hey, what—” and Ryan leans close and stares for the space of one breath before he tilts his head and presses his mouth gently against Brendon’s, hands cold against Brendon’s cheeks. It’s not much of a kiss, as they go – the barest flicker of tongue against Brendon’s lips, and really, they just sit there and _breathe_. Then Ryan pushes forward just a little bit and it takes another ten seconds before he realises that Brendon isn’t doing anything, is just sitting there. He breaks away and then flushes red and angry.

He goes to move away but Brendon reaches out and steadies him, murmurs, “Wait a moment.” He bends forward and their foreheads press against each other – Brendon’s eyes are closed but Ryan doesn’t kiss him again, just stares, going slightly cross-eyed.

“Okay,” Brendon says finally, and he moves back, leans against the couch. He looks at Ryan almost curiously, a little bit sad and a little bit wistful, Ryan thinks, but he can’t understand, doesn’t get the reasoning behind this soft Brendon, this quiet Brendon who gives off the impression of knowing more than Ryan had ever imagined. “Okay, Ry, um, no.”

“No,” Ryan echoes flatly.

“It’s not a good idea,” Brendon says firmly, and turns back to the screen. “Come on. Let’s finish this race.” Ryan follows his eyes and stares blankly at the TV where their cars, neither of them moving, are vibrating a little, letting off a low hum under the excited electronic music of the video game.

Waiting.

(Ryan has never been so embarrassed in his life. He breathes in sharp and then says, “Fuck you and your stupid game.” He stands up and walks out and doesn’t look back once. When he closes the door, he is furiously proud of himself, until he thinks of Brendon’s face. But it only takes a few minutes to remember how to leave, and Ryan is sure that at home Spencer will not ask any questions.)

 

 

 

Brendon calls three times, but Ryan looks at his name flashing up on his sidekick and walks out of the room. The third time, as he leaves he hears Spencer pick up and say, in a low voice, “Hello?”

And despite himself he turns, and lingers in the doorway, arms folded, face set. Spencer looks straight at him when he says, “Yes, he’s here.” There is a pause and then he smiles so quickly that Ryan isn’t sure it happened. “Yeah.”

Ryan bites the inside of his cheek and wonders what Spencer’s agreeing with.

“No, I don’t – he hasn’t said anything to me.” Ryan scoffs derisively in the doorway, though he’s not sure what at, and Spencer’s eyes narrow. “Don’t worry about him, Brendon. He’s just being—”

And Ryan storms out of the room, slams the door shut behind him, but not before he hears Spencer murmur, “I’m sorry.”

(That night, before he goes to bed, Spencer shouts at Ryan’s door, “I am so not on your side for this, just so you know!” Ryan pretends not to hear.)

 

 

 

He has to leave his room, of course, for college and also to get food once in a while, but Spencer isn’t speaking to him and Brendon isn’t coming around anymore and Jon is busy with work and college himself at the moment, so he feels like he might as well still be locked up in his room. He stops going past Brendon’s work again, and feels bitterly righteous most of the time, so much so that some days he almost forgets what he’s feeling angry about and goes to ring up Brendon and bitch about whatever the fuck he’s annoyed about, and then – oh. He remembers again.

After a while he abandons studying at Starbucks because apparently Spencer has told Jon what’s going on, and Jon keeps biting his lip and studying Ryan in a concerned sort of matter and there’s nothing to be _worried_ about, Ryan just happens to make friends with assholes now and again. It gets irritating, and so he relocates to a smaller café a few blocks off campus with really good bagels.

He’s just finished congratulating himself on finding a place where no one else can find him, so he supposes it could almost be amusing the way the guy walking past pauses at his table and says, “Ryan?”

It could _almost_ be amusing, except for the bit that when Ryan looks up Gerard has that same touch of wariness in his eyes that Jon does, and that the way he shifts his weight uncertainly makes Ryan sure that he’s spoken to Frank who’s spoken to Brendon who _cannot keep his fucking mouth shut_ and Ryan isn’t laughing at all.

“Hi,” he mutters instead, somewhat ungraciously, and then feels like a small, sullen child. He is small and frozen inside his bones, not totally aware of what’s going on outside his skin.

Gerard’s mouth twitches just a little bit, and Ryan wonders suddenly how much older Gerard is than him. He scratches at his neck and avoids Gerard’s eyes.

“Can I sit down?” Gerard asks, and maybe if his voice was condescending or overly kind or gentle Ryan would make up something about leaving, but he’s just Gerard, with a quiet, friendly tone that is almost eager in the way it tries to make you understand things. Then Ryan thinks that he’s being stupid, he’s only met the guy a few times, but Gerard is looking a bit confused and he realises he’s been quiet for too long.

“Sure,” he says, and makes a flippant gesture at the empty chair across from him. Gerard sits, and they stare at each other for a moment, before Ryan clears his throat and asks awkwardly, “So how are you?”

“Fine, thanks,” Gerard says, and the twitch at the corner of his mouth is back, the wry twist in his eyes. “What about you?”

“I’m good,” Ryan answers dully. He’s tired and bored of this, and he wants Gerard to do something or just leave – he’s sick of dancing around people these days.

Apparently, Gerard manages to hear this thought, and he says, “Really?” His eyes are careful and a little bit curious, and Ryan shifts away.

“So you know, then,” Ryan mumbles, as though it wasn’t obvious from the way Gerard stood. Or maybe it wasn’t? Ryan thinks maybe he is reading too much into things, these days.

“Yeah,” Gerard says, and he’s silent for a moment – and then: “You have no idea what you’re doing, Ryan.”

Ryan’s gaze darts up and he glares at Gerard. “What,” he hisses. “ _What_ am I doing, Gerard?” But he doesn’t want to wait and hear – he lurches clumsily to his feet and gathers his books together. His heart is beating unsteadily, and his feet burn with the force of his anger.

Only Gerard reaches out between them and grabs Ryan’s wrist. “Sit down,” he snaps. “Come _on_ , Ryan. Stop being so. _Listen_. Brendon’s a – well, used to be – a Mormon. He hasn’t spoken to his family in a year. Listen, Ryan, please, _please_ listen. He doesn’t – he’s not doing it, he didn’t do it to embarrass you or whatever. He has—”

“What?” Ryan says, faintly. “What did you say about his family?”

Gerard takes a breath, slows down. “They argued a lot. I don’t – I only know the outline of the story, bits Frank and Brendon have told me kind of, separately. Um. But Brendon wanted to do music at college and didn’t want to do a mission, and they were pretty pissed about that. Only they were his _parents_ – it wasn’t like they didn’t _love_ him. So they decided he could do music and they kind of convinced themselves he’d become a teacher which was, you know, perfectly respectable. And things were tense, but not really _bad_.

“Only one day they saw him kissing a guy,” and Ryan’s breathing is too light, he feels dizzy. Gerard’s voice is so soft. “And you know. No fucking way they could see themselves – or work around that, or whatever. They kicked him out. Brendon flew to Chicago because he – he liked the idea of doing college there, and a – a new start, you know. And he found the apartment and advertised for a roommate which is how he met Frank – and got that job, teaching kids guitar, and don’t – don’t look like that, Ryan, he’s _happy_ , I know he is.

“But, yeah. He misses his family. A lot. He’s, he’s _furious_ at them, of course, but he still misses them. And – I don’t really understand this completely, but I think, I think Brendon made a, a pact with himself. And he doesn’t do… flings, or whatever, he’s serious about those things. If it’s something he wants to do, if it’s a decision he’s made that means he can’t see his family anymore, then he. He needs it to be worth something.”

Gerard stops, abruptly, and Ryan nods, lets out a breath. “Okay,” he murmurs. “I don’t – God. Okay, I get it.”

“You’re his best friend,” Gerard tells him, and Ryan is caught wide-eyed and shaking in the older man’s quiet gaze. “Don’t be angry for too long.” He shrugs and rises to his feet. “I’ll see you later, Ryan.”

It’s only when he’s left that Ryan looks up and says, quickly, “Bye.” He takes a sip of his coffee only to find it’s cold.

“Okay,” he says again, and stands up.

 

 

 

Frank opens the door when he knocks and stares at Ryan, unblinking. Ryan is not so stupid as to not notice the hostility in Frank’s gaze. He shifts uncomfortably and says, finally, “Is Brendon here?”

“That depends,” Frank says, face stony.

Ryan lets out a breath. “ _Please_ , Frank.”

Frank tilts his head and says, “Listen, if you say or do _anything_ that makes him – that turns him into what he’s been for the past few weeks, I swear to God I will hunt you down and _kill_ you.”

“If I do,” Ryan answers steadily, “I promise I’ll let you.”

Frank stares at him for a long moment, and then grabs his keys. “I’m going out,” he mumbles. “Seriously, Ross. _Seriously_.”

“I know,” Ryan says. “Thank you.” He brushes past and follows the muffled sound of music loud enough to sound through headphones to where Brendon’s sitting in the living room, sideways on the couch with his back to Ryan.

Ryan walks over to the couch, feeling a little unsteady, and crawls onto it; Brendon’s back straightens at the sudden extra weight, and Ryan looks past him to the mirror on the wall, where Brendon’s watching him, mouth tight, face unreadable.

Ryan whispers, “Hi,” lips moving slowly, deliberately, so Brendon can read them. And then he turns around and lines his back up with Brendon’s, leans his head back so that they’re leaning against each other. Brendon doesn’t do anything, doesn’t move in the slightest, but he doesn’t pull away when Ryan reaches back for his hand, either.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there; eventually, the album Brendon’s listening to finishes and he doesn’t bother to put on a new one, but when he finally asks, “What are you doing here, Ryan?” Ryan knows that he’s angry.

“I’m sorry,” Ryan tells him quietly. He opens his mouth, goes to say something more but ends up quiet again. “Brendon, I’m sorry.”

“You’ve got to stop cutting me out of your life,” Brendon says quietly, words clear and separate like they’re hard to say, “Every time you get mixed up about something, or I don’t react the way you want me to, or something, _anything_ , Ryan. I can’t be the person you want me to be all the time.” Ryan is silent, doesn’t know how to tell Brendon all the things he knows right now, the things Gerard has told him and the things that Spencer and Jon have been telling him all along and most of all, most of _all_ the thing that despite all the quiet fury in Brendon’s voice, he still hasn’t let go of Ryan’s hand, and that tells him the last things he needs to know. “ _Ryan_ ,” Brendon persists, tugging the earphones out of his ears and laying the iPod on the floor. “Listen to me. Please. I don’t – don’t do that again, okay? Just, don’t, I can’t.”

“I’m trying,” Ryan whispers. “I don’t know how to stop, but I’m trying,” and his hand squeezes Brendon’s once more.

“But I can’t be that for you,” Brendon tells him, firmly. “I _can’t_ , Ryan, we think in different ways and I don’t—”

“Do flings,” Ryan says, a little coldly. “Gerard told me. He told me all the – why didn’t you. Brendon. I wish you had _told_ me.”

Brendon is quiet and still for a long time, and then he says slowly, awfully, “It’s not a big thing, it’s—”

“No, _you_ listen to _me_ ,” Ryan tells him. “You’ve got to stop pretending you’re fine so you can fix everyone else, Bren. You’ve got to—”

“You don’t get to tell me what I have to do, Ross,” Brendon is glaring in the mirror, and he swivels around, tugs Ryan around to face him and then lets go of his hand. “You don’t have the – don’t you fucking _dare_ , okay? You have no fucking right to – what gives you the, in your head, tell me, what makes you think that you can tell _me_ what to be? Ryan? Stop giving me this stupid blanket statements and _tell_ me what—”

“I’m in love with you,” Ryan says, in a rush. It comes out weaker than he meant it; his chest is tight, it’s hard to talk properly. Brendon’s eyes go wide, and he doesn’t say anything. He feels off balance; suddenly knows why people don’t say it like that, because it makes him feel like he’s hyperventilating or something stupid and cliché.

Brendon breathes in shallowly, and then reaches out, touches his cheek curiously. Ryan closes his eyes and his lungs heave once, knife-sharp. “Please don’t,” he says, weakly. “Brendon. Please, I can’t.”

“Say it again,” Brendon whispers, and his eyes are huge and dark and fierce. Ryan wants Spencer to be there and Brendon to be gone; he wants to fold up in a heap and he hates himself; he wants to turn back the last few hours, the last few _months_ before he met Brendon, when everything was quiet and clear.

“Don’t,” he mumbles. “Don’t make me, no.”

But Brendon leans closer, rests his forehead against Ryan’s and when Ryan opens his mouth Brendon cuts over the top of him. “Ryan,” he says, and he’s smiling a little in the corner of his mouth, the slightest lift. “Say it again.”

Ryan closes his eyes. “No,” he tells him, but when his eyes open again Brendon’s waiting so that he can catch his gaze, and the look there feels like defeat. But Brendon’s laughing, and Ryan can feel his breath against his face, feels it up to the moment when Brendon leans closer and kisses him, mouth scraping open against Ryan’s, pushing him further backwards onto the couch. His eyes fly open but Brendon’s warm, lifting a little so that Ryan can untangle his (still crossed) legs and straighten them, and then Brendon kisses him again and Ryan doesn’t understand – he pulls away and says, rather stupidly, “Wait. What? Brendon, I—”

“Ryan,” Brendon says, and he’s still laughing, eyes warm and so full of something that Ryan’s caught breathless, staring up at him. “Fucking – how are you such an _idiot_ , seriously? You fucking loser, you thought I—” and he breaks off to laugh harder. Ryan glares up at him and opens his mouth but Brendon smiles tiredly down at him and says, “Is there honestly a part of you that doesn’t know how I – Ryan. _Ryan_.”

“What?” Ryan says, gaping up at him. “Seriously, what?” But Brendon just leans down again, cups his hand against Ryan’s cheek and kisses him long and lazy, and then he sucks Ryan’s lower lip into his mouth a little bit and Ryan gasps and arches up, half-hard already, and he’d be embarrassed except for how Brendon’s lying so close, Ryan can feel his cock against Ryan’s thigh. Brendon reaches between them and palms Ryan’s cock through his jeans; Ryan gasps and pushes up, rubbing against Brendon’s hand and the warm weight of his body, not quite on top of Ryan.

Brendon says, a little awkwardly, “If you want—”

Ryan kisses him fiercely and breathes, “ _> Yes_.” Brendon is quiet for a moment and then he laughs again, stands up and grabs at Ryan’s hand. Ryan makes a mumbling noise of discontent and Brendon tells him, quite firmly, “I am _not_ having sex with you on my couch,” and okay, Ryan would probably go anywhere when Brendon’s looking at him like that, eyes darker than usual and Ryan can see the desire in them, thrums with the knowledge that Brendon _does_ want, he wants _Ryan_ , and Ryan would probably walk miles for that.

(Nevertheless, he’s glad when Brendon tugs him to his feet that Brendon’s bedroom is only a short hallway away.)

When they get to Brendon’s room, Ryan wheels around and corners Brendon between him and the wall, slips his leg between Brendon’s and presses in close, kissing him as hard and dirty as he can. He thinks he’s maybe cheating a little bit, but Brendon whines and fumbles at Ryan’s fly and when he finally gets Ryan’s jeans past his hips and slips his hands into Ryan’s boxers, Ryan moans, a tiny broken bit of sound, and stops thinking.

“Please,” Brendon whispers, and he slips to his knees, drags Ryan’s boxers down and before Ryan has really had time to prepare himself Brendon’s swirled his tongue around the head of Ryan’s cock. Ryan’s head lolls back and he whines a little bit when Brendon pulls off and says again, “ _Please_.”

“Anything,” Ryan mumbles, hands curling in Brendon’s hair, and Brendon takes his cock into his mouth, as far as he can and sucks hard, head bobbing on and off.

Then he draws off again and Ryan has time to think _Brendon Urie is a motherfucking bastard tease_ before Brendon says, “Want you to fuck me,” and licks at Ryan’s cock, in a thoughtful manner, and it takes all of Ryan’s willpower not to come right there.

As it is, he blinks for a moment and then kicks off his shoes awkwardly, stepping out of the tangle of jeans and boxers, and he’s pulling Brendon to his feet, whispering, “Yes, _yes_ ,” and pulling at Brendon’s clothing. He has a feeling he’s a lot clumsier than normal, not so good with the sleekness in movement he’s perfected at times like this, but Brendon has a habit of bringing out the worst (and the best) in him. Anyway, Brendon doesn’t seem to mind; his mouth is open and wet and he’s unbuttoning Ryan’s shirt as fast as he can, fingers stumbling, and then stepping out of his jeans and tugging off his t-shirt. They look at each other, both suddenly naked, and Brendon must see the acknowledgment of the strange absurdity of this in Ryan’s eyes because he laughs, short and warm.

Then he’s kissing Ryan fitfully, and Ryan moans when he pushes close enough for their cocks to rub against each other, flushing at the friction – and then he breaks away and whirls, out of breath, to his drawers, rummages through the top one until he finds a small container of lube, and a condom. He gives them to Ryan and they stare at each other, suddenly serious, and then Ryan takes Brendon’s hand and leads him to his bed, pushes him gently down.

“How do you,” he begins, and Brendon interrupts:

“Want to see you.”

“Yeah,” Ryan breathes, and pushes gently at Brendon’s shoulder so that he slips back. Ryan coats his fingers with lube and then pushes one in. His cock twitches, and Brendon’s so fucking tight around him just like this, he can’t imagine what it’s going to be like around his cock (or he can, and that’s half the problem, he needs to _calm down_ or he’s going to be like a schoolboy on his first time). Brendon gasps and his head falls back, eyes half-closed. Ryan leans forward enough to kiss him, gentle and soft, and while he slips his tongue softly into Brendon’s mouth he lines up his next finger, pushes that in, too.

Brendon’s hips buck up off the bed towards him, and he’s making choked noises in a whine at the back of his throat now, almost begging. Ryan licks at his mouth, and then breaks away, stares straight down at Brendon when he slips his third finger in.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Brendon gasps, and his eyes slip close, the dark flash of eyelashes against skin. “Please, Ryan, _please_ , I need you to—”

Ryan hums in the back of his throat, pleased, and pulls his fingers out. Brendon whines at the loss of contact and Ryan rips open the condom packet, slides it on himself with minimum fuss. He crawls up over the top of Brendon, lines his cock up and pushes gently against Brendon’s ass, murmurs, “Ready?”

“Yes,” Brendon babbles mindlessly. “Yes, God, Ryan, come _on_ , please, don’t make me wait, don’t—” and Ryan slides in, a little at a time. Brendon clenches around him instinctively and Ryan gasps, hips rolling down automatically and Brendon chants, “Yes, come on, come on, fucking don’t stop now, you asshole.”

Ryan’s eyes flick open and he says, “ _Your_ asshole, loser,” and before Brendon can open his mouth again he thrusts in all the way and Brendon arches against him, squirming. Ryan waits a moment, and then pulls out enough so he can push back in; and then he’s fucking Brendon in earnest, with Brendon gasping _shitshitfuckholyshitryangodryanryan_ beneath him, rising up against him and Ryan honestly can’t think.

Except he kind of wants to, because there’s this: Brendon so close beneath him and around him and his eyes kind of flick open after a while and yeah, he really does, he _watches_ Ryan. Brendon’s face is like nothing Ryan has ever seen or imagined before, lips wet and red and not quite closed, and his eyes fixed on Ryan’s face. And when their eyes finally meet he smiles just a little bit, the tiniest curl of the right-hand corner of his mouth, and it’s a little bit sweet and a lot beautiful and fuck, Ryan is so, _so_ gone.

He slips his hand between them and curls long fingers around Brendon’s dick, and Brendon moans beneath him and arches up, hands on Ryan’s shoulders so that he can reach all the way up and kiss him, slow and soft and his mouth slides off and onto Ryan’s cheek – normally Ryan would be kind of grossed out by the wetness of it but now he just gasps, hips snapping forward and Brendon moans again. His lips move against Ryan’s cheek and Ryan can’t quite hear it all properly but he can _feel_ it, the curve of words: _loveyouloveyoufuckingplease_.

Ryan doesn’t think, at this stage, that he’ll ever be able to say no to Brendon again; he murmurs yes back into Brendon’s skin and jerks him off, to the same rhythm that he’s fucking him, and Brendon whimpers a little and then stiffens, eyes closing. He comes with a choked cry over Ryan’s stomach and Ryan groans and comes, too, sliding forward helplessly and collapsing awkwardly on Brendon’s chest.

There’s silence for a moment; the heavy rise and fall, ragged sound of them breathing and then Brendon says, quietly, “Um,” and Ryan flushes, says, “Oh, right, sorry,” and pulls out. Brendon laughs softly and produces a box of Kleenex to swab at his stomach and get rid of the condom in, and Ryan rolls back enough to let Brendon do it properly, watching him lazily from eyes drifting closed.

“Princess,” Brendon grins, when he stretches away from the bed long enough to chuck the bundle in a bin, and Ryan laughs. He pulls a sheet up over them and Ryan shifts over enough that Brendon can fit more comfortably. Brendon shifts closer, and blinks innocently up at him.

Ryan regards him doubtfully. “Are we going to cuddle now?”

“That’s as good as permission!” Brendon says cheerfully, and winds a leg around Ryan’s hips.

“Um,” Ryan says, and then rolls over enough to fish their boxers off the floor. Brendon’s laughing so hard that he has to sit and catch his breath before he can pull them on, and he keeps laughing through Ryan’s indignant exclamations of, “ _What_? _What_ , it’s embarrassing!” But when he stops, finally (and it’s more of a wind-down than an abrupt finish; he giggles against Ryan’s collarbone for a while) he slides close again, and Ryan falls asleep with his face in Brendon’s hair.

(Incidentally, he wakes _up_ to Brendon thoughtfully taking care of a morning erection with a hasty blow job. They don’t manage to actually get up and showered for another half hour after that; Ryan figures that paying Brendon back in kind is only fair.)

(Also, it kind of makes him happy when Brendon looks down at him and breathes “ _Fuck_ , Ryan, so fucking beautiful.” Something to believe in, he thinks, when he’s waiting for Brendon to finish in the shower. Summer’s almost here.)

 

 

 

Ryan finishes towelling off his hair and wanders out into the kitchen; Brendon’s sitting on the bench frowning into his phone. “What d’you mean?” he says, and laughs in a quick burst. Ryan blinks at him and he smiles back. “Seriously, _nothing_? – Oh, fuck you too. Alright. Yeah, we suck at this apartment thing.”

He hangs up and greets Ryan cheerfully with, “We have no food, and I’m _starving_.”

“Okay,” Ryan says slowly, brain still trying to wake up properly. He holds his hand out for Brendon’s phone. “I’ll ring Spence and see if we’ve got anything at our place.”

“Awesome,” Brendon grins. “I’m gonna go grab my shoes, I’ll be back in a sec.”

“Yeah,” Ryan drawls, dialling Spencer’s number, “Well, make sure to keep me informed.” Brendon laughs but when he walks past his fingers linger at Ryan’s hips for a moment, and Ryan turns to watch him leave the room.

And then Spencer picks up and says, sharply, “Is he being an asshole again? I’m sorry, I would have, like, fucking _escorted_ him over to say sorry or something _properly_ , but I was at class—”

“I’m not being an asshole,” Ryan tells him quietly.

There is a pause; Ryan momentarily celebrates at having managed to surprise Spencer for a moment. Then Spencer says, somewhat grumpily, “So did you fix it?”

Ryan stretches back, yawns and says, a little too smugly, “Yup.”

Spencer lets out a breath and Ryan smiles down the line at him, even though he can’t see it. “So,” he says conversationally.

Spencer knows him too well; Ryan can _feel_ him narrowing his eyes when he says, grudgingly, “Yes?”

Brendon arrives back in the kitchen and grabs the phone, switches it onto speakerphone and says, “You know what I feel like, Spencer Smith? _Pancakes_ , oh my God, seriously, I would kill for some. I would _gnaw off_ Ryan’s—”

“Okay,” Ryan interrupts, hastily, and Brendon grins at him, waggles his eyebrows.

“You’ve a sick mind, Ross,” he says.

Spencer sighs, “I’ll get the milk out.” Brendon punches the air in triumph.

 

 

 

That night, Jon comes over to watch a movie with them and they all pile on the couch – Brendon-Ryan-Spencer-Jon, except they change, slide over each other so Ryan has his head in Jon’s lap and Spencer’s absently scruffing a hand through Brendon’s hair.

Ryan doesn’t fall asleep, not this time. He watches the movie and then, when another one’s put on that doesn’t interest him much, he watches Spencer and Brendon (Jon’s face drifting out of sight, and all he can see is his hand holding Spencer’s, thumb drifting over his knuckles); the slight glow about their faces from the electronic light of the TV. The way they smile at what goes on onscreen, short and small and unconscious.

When that movie finishes, Spencer looks over Ryan’s head and there’s something in his eyes, a question, maybe. Ryan cranes his head back to see Jon’s response but maybe he misses it or maybe Spence just didn’t need to ask to know the answer, because Jon pushes him off lightly and says, “We’re gonna go back to my place for a while.”

Brendon and Ryan chip in with the appropriate lewd comments but when the door closes, Ryan looks down, fingers twisting in his lap. He’s not quite sure what to _do_ , what’s expected of him because he’s dated people before (but number one problem is he’s not really sure if he and Brendon _are_ dating. It seems kind of stupid and high-schoolie to say so, or even ask), though only once since Vegas, he’s even been with a person long enough to fall into the quiet camaraderie of not having to speak properly, but it’s different tonight, with Brendon on the end of the couch. Ryan doesn’t have to look up to know he’s watching him.

“Hey,” Brendon says, cockily. Ryan looks up against his will and Brendon grins at him, wide and unmeasured. “What’s up with you?” he asks, but his eyes are dark and amused and Ryan makes a show of huffiness before he crawls over and kisses him, hands curling around Brendon’s wrists, decisive.

“Nothing,” he mumbles, and Brendon kisses him back.

 

 

 

It’s warm on the last night of spring; Ryan pulls his hoodie off and strolls the last few blocks with his hands in his pockets, and the breeze is warm and the nights are getting lighter; the stars are out but it’s a grey-blue, and the streetlights are sort of unnecessary. The buildings around here are painted white, too, and that makes it lighter, Ryan supposes. Mostly, though, it’s just the indescribable rush of summer on its way.

Ryan turns onto the street in time to see a fourteen year old girl jumping into a car waiting for her, pushing a guitar in the backseat a little awkwardly, and he speeds up his steps accordingly. When Brendon appears at the doorway Ryan’s leaning on the gate, watching him: hair falling across his face as he ducks his head to lock the door, and then heaving the satchel and guitar case onto each respective shoulder. A piece of sheet music falls onto the ground, but neither of them notice, and it is caught by the breeze, blowing into a corner.

When Brendon turns around, the flash of his smile glows in the darkness, and Ryan grins back, slow and easy as he walks quickly down the path. Ryan takes his bag and slings it over one shoulder, and Brendon curls his hand around the other one, lips moving quickly as he talks softly in Ryan’s ear. Ryan laughs and looks back at him, appraisingly, almost, and Brendon shrugs (but he’s still smiling). In the growing dark, they walk home together.


End file.
